


Someday, Someday

by SociopathicArchangel



Series: The World Was Wide Enough [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: BACK AT IT AGAIN, Brothers AU, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Humor, a family can be a recovering alcoholic, and an in-denial dramatic jerk who just wants to find someone, and their dog, bc this is waaaaaaay down the line timeline-wise, but im not putting it in the series until i've sorted out all the other fics that come before this, except this one's more lighthearted so, his two sons, in the same universe as The World Was Wide Enough, with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociopathicArchangel/pseuds/SociopathicArchangel
Summary: RK900, the model code read.There was sticky note over the serial code, and it read, in the same handwriting as all the notes and sketches in the room had been penned in, Snarky Mcbuttface.or: in which Hank is just trying to get his other son to stop running out of the car and into the rain at the first sign of his best friend being in danger, Connor is an exasperated older brother (kinda), RK800-60 is perpetually screaming at his own mistakes, and RK900 is a discontinued prototype who just wants to get things done. Bonus: Sumo is cute.





	1. Chapter 1

It is a rainy Friday afternoon. It's been raining a lot in the city recently, which is alright as Hamilton gets to stay in with cold weather, but it's also a bit of a downer because that means horrid traffic, and horrid traffic means the Andersons will be later for the usual movie marathon, or might even cancel. Which is a shame – everyone had recommended a _stellar_ lineup of movies for tonight (Hank said one thing and it was Shrek) and they were all looking forward to passing out to them.

But, they could always reschedule. With any luck, classes will be declared suspended with how strong the storm is raging, and they'd all end up with a free week on their hands...or Hamilton and RK800-60 would. Connor and Hank would still have work.  

When are teleporters going to be released publicly? Stupid rich people and their being first in line to new technology.

It is with this (kinda) grim thought that Hamilton takes out one of the tubs of ice cream she's been saving for the night. She shakes her head dramatically, a theatre kid through and through, before she sits herself on her couch trying to find something good on Netflix, and then settling for the classic Happy Tree Friends as she eats her ice cream straight from the carton.

She's seven episodes in, and has already devoured a fourth of her ice cream, when she hears three perfectly timed knocks on her door. She looks at the clock on the shelf, surprised. It's still six in the evening. Had the traffic not been that bad that the Andersons had immediately gotten through?

She looks down at the tub of ice cream she's decided to eat by herself. Hm.

Maybe Hank won't mind.

There's another series of knocks. Hamilton quickly gets to her feet to get the ice cream tub back into the fridge. “Just a moment!” she says, and then frowns, because didn't her house already have the Anderson boys registered in its system?

“Front door, open,” she says, already running towards said door, and thankfully, she catches it just as soon as it swings itself open. Connor still has one hand raised to knock. Surprising how he hasn't just settled for pressing the doorbell until she got annoyed, like he always did.

“Hey!” Hamilton skids on the floor and bumps her shoulder into the doorframe trying to stop, making her wince a little. She raises her head, about to nervously laugh and excuse her clumsy welcome by saying she hadn't expected her visitors to get home early, but then she notices that there's only one person on the doorstep.

Hank isn't there. RK800-60 isn't there either.

Neither is Connor.

The person who stands in front of her looks like Connor, kind of, but he's taller, the set of his jaw is wider, and his eyes are steel blue. He isn't wearing a police uniform, nor is he wearing any of the sweaters and jackets the Anderson boys are fond of. Instead it's a white and grey uniform, accented with blue LED markings, not dissimilar to how old android uniforms used to be, and right where his model code number should be, RK900 is printed.

Hamilton looks up at him, and then back down to his serial number.

She blinks.

“Okay,” she says. “Uh, hello?”

He says nothing, and Hamilton feels like she wants to slink into the corner of the room to hide from the sheer awkwardness this whole situation reeks of.  

She wonders for a moment if she should let him in the house. He looks familiar enough that her guard is let down for just a second, and she almost does invite him in, but then she remembers that he can also probably snap her neck if he wanted to.  

She decides safety is her foremost priority right now. With an awkward smile, she raises a hand in a 'please wait a moment' motion, fishes out her phone from her pockets, and then calls the third number on her speed dial, all the while keeping her eye on her visitor.

RK800-60 picks up on the first ring. _“Hello, Ham?”_

“RK, hey, uh.” She shifts on her feet, unsure of how to word her question. “Do you, uh, have a third brother?”

RK800-60 doesn't answer right away. _“I'm assuming you mean another RK800 model who's up and running. No one I know, no. The ones I know who're functioning right now are myself and Connor.”_

“How about the RK series in general?”

“ _Markus is an RK200.”_

“Oh, shit, really?” Hamilton lets out a little breath of surprise. “I didn't know that, I'm a dumbass. But, uh, those are the only ones you know who're alive right now?”

“ _They should be, yeah. Why?”_ In a second, his voice suddenly becomes tight, concerned. _“Ham, is something wrong?”_

RK900 is staring down at Hamilton blankly. She can't tell what he's feeling – if he's even feeling or if he's just been freshly activated to like, maybe ask her where the Andersons were and kidnap them, or _something –_ and she doesn't know what he's thinking. She knows that because she's risking not letting him out of her sight, she's also allowing him to listen in on her conversation, but perhaps its better like this. If anything happens to her, RK800-60 can hear it.  

“Do you - ” her voice breaks off in nervousness and she clears her throat “ - do you know anything about uh, model RK900, serial number...313 248 317 – uh, dash, 87?”

There's a pause.

And then RK800-60 curses, very, very softly. There's a shuffle, the faint sound of Hank's voice as he says, _“Hey, what – what are you doing -”_ and then Hamilton leans back a little, incredulous, when she registers that she's hearing a car door open and then close, and then there's the noise of several car horns, the patter of the rain, and loud but rapid splashes.

“ _Where is the RK900?”_

“On my porch,” she said.

“ _Where are you?”_

“By the doorway.”

“… _you're directly face to face with it?”_

“No, it's more like, chest to face, or more accurately lower right ribcage to face, but you know.”

“ _Hamilton, what the fuck?”_

Hamilton laughs, voice high and very, very clearly nervous, because RK900 has tilted his head, and suddenly she wishes he hadn't moved at all. “Hey, I figured it was better I didn't let him out of my sight. At least I called you.”

“ _Keep me on the phone.”_

“Wasn't planning on hanging up, RK, I'm so absolutely terrified out of my mind right now.”

“ _Stay calm.”_

“I'm trying.”

The splashes on the other side are getting louder. There's a very loud honk.

“ _What were you doing before the RK900 showed up at your door?”_

“I was watching Happy Tree Friends,” Hamilton says, immediately taking the bait for a distraction, “And eating ice cream.”

“ _By yourself?”_

“Yes.”

“ _An entire tub?”_

“Like, a fourth,” she pauses, “But my goal was the whole tub.”

“ _God damn it, Ham - ”_

That''s how Hamilton ends up spending her Friday evening. She doesn't get a movie marathon, but she does end up staying on the phone for half an hour with her best friend, all the while trying to stare down an android on her porch while said android keeps watching her silently.  

And then the half an hour passes and RK800-60 gets to her house, sprinting through the rain like hell is on his heels, and tackles RK900 to the ground.

 

* * *

 

RK800-60 has made a lot of mistakes. A lot of them were pre-deviancy, but he himself knows that the seed for deviancy has always been there even before Connor had showed him his memories, so he knows he has no excuse, and that he's still to blame, and therefore it is still a mistake of his. He messed up quite a bit in Jericho – he'd lost his footing on scaffoldings and had almost fallen to his death too many times, he’d had a hard time stringing his words together at first and often said things wrong that got him on the receiving end of someone else's ire, and he'd – well, in general, existed.  

Actually, he's trying to get out of this mindset, but it's quite difficult, even after more than a year after the Detroit Uprising, and he's settling into his life with the Andersons. He can't say he's settling _well,_ exactly, but he does know he's settling, and it's not settling _for._ It's better than he deserves after everything.

But the fact remains that RK800-60 has still made mistakes. Small mistakes, big mistakes. He's burnt eggs a lot of times when he was still learning household chores. He's stayed out late wandering the city because he'd gotten distracted by the pretty lights. He's also delivered coffee late to the precinct because he saw a rather cute dog and decided to follow it as its owner walked it (he made a friend, at least), and then when he got to the precinct, the coffee was cold and he had to run to the shop to get a new cup.  

He's also gotten into fights back when he was in Jericho. He's gotten into arguments with Connor that lasted day because of his petty stubborness. He's once pissed off Hank and had to stay over Hamilton's for two nights until he decided to apologize.

But he decides, that he's royally, royally, _abso-fucking-lutely -_ as Hank would say - fucked up, the day he'd decided to go into the Cyberlife tower when the company was officially declared to be shut down.

There'd been plenty of movement against the company ever since the Uprising, and Markus had been negotiating with its board members to hand over the production of android parts to him and Jericho, as they'd initially requested when his first message went nationwide. So eventually, due to pressure – and with Elijah Kamski not giving a damn and just waving a hand and going, “Go ahead.” - the corporation had caved in, and had agreed to hand the keys of production over to Markus.

Which kind of meant they gave him the entire building.

It had just been a coincidence. RK800-60 had gotten thrown out the house (actually, no, he didn't; he and Hank had a disagreement, and like the rebellious, slightly frustrated teenager his personality seemed to embody, he'd walked out the house) and decided camping out at Hamilton's was the best option, much to the confusion of her parents. In the morning, he'd gotten a call from Markus that most of the Jericho crew was going to the Cyberlife Tower, and that if he was free, he was invited to come along.

Connor had been busy. And RK800-60 suspected he hadn't wanted to go back to Cyberlife considering his last time there had involved RK800-60 taking his father figure hostage, and then his sentience had nearly been taken over by Amanda. He  imagined Hank hadn't wanted him to go either. Hadn't wanted for either of them to.

But Hank hadn't been there, and RK800-60 hadn't seen him that day as he hadn't gone home. Instead he'd stayed the morning at the Hamiltons’, even making them breakfast and helping them around the house as a bit of thanks, and then when he was done, he took a cab to Cyberlife Tower and met up with everyone else.

They were all given a tour by some of the remaining human staff who hadn't already packed up their bags and left, and with the number of androids who were with them, all eager to see what was possibly going to become a second base of operations – maybe even a building where some of them could keep offices in – no one saw him slip away when they reached the production room.  

He hadn't meant to stray from the crowd, he really hadn't, but at the time of the Uprising, androids hadn't stopped their production. Connor had freed the ones in the Belle Isle, but the factory ran nonstop. There were still models left, about to be delivered into their respective storage floors; some were even in more secure floors.

They'd passed by one of these floors. They weren't supposed to be kept secret anymore, of course, so their guide had told them that there were android models still there, but didn't exactly lead them inside because they were on a tight schedule and they needed to show Markus the entire building before they were supposed to pack up and leave.  

But it had caught RK800-60's attention, and he'd stayed behind while everyone else had moved on. He'd been curious, and these days, he’s very rarely curious.

The door easily opened to him after he'd hacked it, and he'd found himself in a not-too-small, and yet not-too-big room that had a glass and metal table not unlike the ones found in operating rooms. There was a seat near the table, mounted on a track that went around it so whoever was working there could simply let the chair glide around the table as they needed it to.  

There were huge storage cases around the room, all of them password-locked, of course, and it took him quite some time to hack through all of them as they each had different codes, most just utterly silly, which clearly reflected the personality of whoever worked here before. Most of them contained biocomponents – old ones taken apart for study, a couple of new ones that probably still had to undergo approval as they were still packed in plastic containers and were tagged with post-it notes, and there were even sketches of additional upgrades, some of them drafted on blueprints and some simply scribbled on notebook paper.

But there was one storage case that was triple-encoded, and did not contain mere biocomponents stacked on shelves and stacked eccentrically.  

RK800-60 spent about an hour and half sitting in front of the storage case, one hand on its keypad, trying get past the AI that was programmed into it, and nearly getting locked out of it permanently when he momentarily decided to try inputting passcodes and almost hitting the limit on how many times he could try guessing the password.  

Finally, when he'd bypassed the case's AI (and kudos to whoever worked here once, to go through the trouble of coding an AI specifically for protecting this case), it had opened, and he'd felt a bit of pride and nearly laughed out loud in triumph. He'd figured then he should probably join some of those codebreaking forums on the internet, as this was proving to be fun for him, and anything that gave him innocent and honest fun was valuable, as he was always reminded, but then he'd looked up at what was inside the case, and he'd stilled.

He'd been looking at himself.

Or, he'd thought he was. He'd snapped out of it after a second and studied the android's features. Its jaw was set wider, it was taller by at least a foot, and it was wearing a different jacket than he'd been when he'd still had its uniform.  

RK900, the model code read.

There was sticky note over the serial code, and it read, in the same handwriting as all the notes and sketches in the room had been penned in, _Snarky Mcbuttface._

Well. Someone's engineer was exasperated yet fond.

He'd realized that moment that he had to have an engineer, somewhere, out there. Or maybe Connor had, or the very first RK800, anyway. Maybe it was one person, as with Kamski and Chloe. Maybe it was an entire team. He’d wondered how they were doing, whoever made him.

And then he brushed the thought aside, there was no use dwelling on it. He wasn't going to know whoever had made him from simply a glance.  

He'd wondered if the RK900's engineer was still in the building, packing up along with the humans who were still leaving. Maybe not. This room was heavily locked.

He'd stood up, staring up at the RK900, and then reaching out, as if to touch the android's arm.

“Why were you kept so securely here?” he'd asked, out loud, like the android would hear him. He'd been aware that his fingers were touching the back of the android's hand, and that his synthetic skin was receding, ready to interface. The android's skin was receding too, and the white plastic shone up at RK800-60 despite the dim lightning of the room.

The LED on the RK900's uniform had slowly started to light up.

RK800-60 had pulled his hand back, as if he was burned, and he'd let out a sigh of relief when the LEDs died down again.  

He'd stared at the model, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.

He’d closed the door on the case, but didn't set the lock on it again. Markus would convert the android when he'd find it later.

He'd given the room one last look and then he'd left.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton is alive when he gets there, at least. She shrieks a little and jumps back in surprise when he seemingly appears out of nowhere to tackle RK900 and rip her front door off its hinges when both of them barrel into it, of course, but she's alive.  

She's currently sitting on her couch and stress-eating the rest of her ice cream while RK800-60 is setting his wrist and arm back into place. Sitting across him is RK900, attempting to smooth out his uniform and waiting for his fancy-smanshy advanced repair system to finish its work.  

RK800-60 might be a little bitter. He knows what RK900 is, even without having to be briefed. He knows his purpose. He looks like the RK800 model; he's part of the RK series with a number that's nearly right behind the 800 line; and in the brief moment of that not-really-interface, he'd managed to get a glimpse of the surface of his coding.

He was built to be a detective too, only faster, better, stronger. An upgrade. That's why there were all those blueprints and those new parts in that lab.

His engineer's work is impressive, admittedly. He's still a prototype, yes, but he's already got nanotech implemented into his systems for advanced repair. Nanotech had still been in development before Cyberlife had shut down – something the upper class would probably have access to first, of course, but it was said that it would still be a few years before it was officially released.

Maybe Shiny Silver here had been a favorite.  

RK800-60's already called Connor, so he's probably already trying to speed his way home as fast as he can, and there doesn't seem to be any sign of another fight breaking out in the house, as both androids have settled for silently glaring at each other.

Or, at least, RK800-60 is. RK900 is just silently staring. He looks...blank.

RK800-60 wonders then if he's even deviant.

“RK?”  

That's Connor. RK800-60 still jolts a little at the nickname anyway. It's never going to not weird him out. He turns to where the front door is...awkwardly hanging on one hinge, barely leaning upright on the inner wall, and sees Connor wincing as he looks at the damage. Beside him is Hank, who takes one look at RK900, whose gash on the right temple is sealing up, and says, “Oh, holy shit, there's another one of you.”

“Right here,” RK800-60 says, raising a hand.  

Connor steps into the room, followed by Hank, immediately heading for their couch. “Hamilton?”

“Rai'here,” the girl says through a mouthful of ice cream, and she's still going.  

Hank raises an eyebrow. “You got any more of that?”

“Av'got pizza in the fridge but ya'gotta 'eat it up.”

Hank heads for the fridge, and Hamilton scrambles off the couch after him, which leaves all the androids together in the living room.

Connor lifts his head a little, a motion to show he's not afraid as he stares down the ever-unperturbed RK900, and RK800-60 thinks, near-hysterically for a moment, that he's kind of like a bird, trying to make himself look big.  

“The damage to his temple's been repaired now,” Connor notes as RK900 wipes at the thirium on his forehead.  

“Advanced repair systems,” RK800-60 says, a little bitterly, “He probably costs _more_ than a small fortune.”

“Are you a prototype?” Connor asks. He still doesn't sit down.

And RK900 still says nothing.

“He's a tough one, detective,” RK800-60 says, laughing, leaning back on the couch, and then sitting up straight again when he remembers he's rolled up his sleeve to set his arm back in place and there's still thirium all over him. “We might be here a while.”

The corner of Connor's lips turn up for a second. “Well. I do have my badge for a reason.”

RK800-60 watches him as he turns to the direction of the kitchen for a moment. Hank and Hamilton are talking in rushed tones over food, clearly discussing what had happened when RK900 had arrived. They're safely away from the threat, and between both RK800 models, if the android with them ever gets violent, they'll have it covered.

Connor moves to sit beside RK800-60 and laces his hands together, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Do you have a name?”

RK900 tilts his head. And then, he shakes his head.  

“Well, we got at least one answer.” RK800-60 lifts his shoulders.  

“That's a start,” Connor says, glancing at him for a moment. Then to the RK900: “Why are you here?”

RK900 takes another pause before he answers again. Both Connor and RK800-60 tense and ready themselves when they see him turn to look at the kitchen, where the humans are. Thankfully, he doesn't stand up and go to them, and directs his attention back to the RK800s.

He raises his hands and moves them, and RK800-60 blinks as he registers that RK900 is signing.

 _I remember you,_ RK900 is saying, pointing to RK800-60. And then he turns to the kitchen. _I remember them too._

Connor frowns, confused, but whatever question he has to ask next dies on his tongue as RK800-60 just gives up and leans back on the couch, covering his face in his hands and groaning.

“RK?” he asks.

RK800-60 ignores him, and just keeps groaning, because he doesn't need human lungs and just needs to keep repeating the same note from his voice box.

He stays like that for a while. RK900 almost goes into standby.


	2. Chapter 2

He has to tell them, so he does, although he expects to be yelled at the whole time. Thankfully, Connor just shakes his head and looks amused while Hank mutters, “Of course you went into a locked room and snooped around. Of _course.”_

They all agree on calling Markus, seeing as the man is probably the one  responsible for awakening the RK900, so maybe he can help them with their situation, which – they don't really know what their situation is. RK900 has stopped answering their questions after he told them he remembered RK800-60 and the humans, and neither RK800 is going to probe his memories as that was a huge breach of privacy and that left a sour taste in their mouths.

Surprisingly, Markus doesn't know an RK900, which leads to RK800-60 sitting and answering the call with his face in his hands and explaining, while Connor finishes up fixing Hamilton's front door before her parents come home.

“ _You must have been the one to wake him up,”_ Markus says, _“The storage case was already empty when we checked the room.”_

That just makes RK800-60 want to scream into his hands, which is, well, admittedly funny, when he gets two hours to think it over after. Hank's snickering at him, sitting across him on the couch, while in one corner of the room – still within RK800-60’s line of sight, of course - RK900 is watching Hamilton as she signs at him, attempting to start a conversation but not succeeding.

“Maybe he just came here because you were the only thing he remembered,” the old man says, “And honestly, I don't blame him. If I woke up and all I remembered was bits and pieces of someone else's memories, I'd try to find them and try to piece what I could.”

“Yeah, but - ” RK800-60 motions with his hand, gives up, and then huffs out a sigh.  

Connor pats his shoulder, sympathetic. “At least we've sorted out why he's here.”

“Have we?”

“He appears to be lost,” Connor says, “And from what Markus said, it's possible you woke him up, and he's confused and he's just trying to make sense of everything using what spotty memories he has.”

They glance at him for a moment. He's pointing to his model code and serial number, and in response, Hamilton laughs and fingerspells her name.  

“What do we do?' RK800-60 asks.

“We could interface with him, show him our memories,” Connor says.

RK800-60 immediately shakes his head. “No, show him _your_ memories,” he says. If there's any chance of RK900 seeing his memories and...somehow taking on his problems just from experiencing them secondhand, he's not risking it. He's not cursing anyone with his hellish processing malfunctions.

He stiffens for a moment when he realizes that if RK900 is feeling things right now and is overwhelmed but is just too good at hiding it, it's his fault.  

He almost tells Connor that this is a bad idea, but then again, if RK900's here because he's confused by spotty memories and he’s trying to track down what he can clearly make out of them in an attempt to find out more, this might be a way to clarify what he's seen, and then he can move on and start to build a life for himself.

Except RK800-60 knows it's not really that simple.

“It's worth a try, I suppose,” Connor says. He glances at RK800-60 for a moment, waiting for him to say something, and after a minute, RK800-60 nods. Might as well.  

“I guess, yeah,” he says. “Hank?”

Hank shrugs. “We can try asking him again, and then you can offer to interface.”

Connor nods, and then walks over to where RK900 is, asking to talk for a bit, which Hamilton takes as a cue to check if her front door is in working order.

RK800-60 watches silently as the two androids converse, and for several minutes, RK900 just blankly watches as Connor signs, but eventually he starts responding. He doesn't have a name as he wasn't given one, he _is_ a prototype, and an unfinished one at that, and he's here because his memories end in the engineering lab and then suddenly, he'd seeing RK800-60's memories, and he needed some place to start his search.

 _Search for what?_ Connor asks, raising an eyebrow.

 _Search for who,_ RK900 corrects. _My engineer._

Connor pauses. He glances at RK800-60 and Hank, and then back to RK900. _Why is that?_

 _I am a prototype,_ RK900 signs, _If I am damaged, I have no way of being repaired. All  my biocomponents are customized only for me. I am not compatible with any pre-existing parts._

“Oh,” Hank says, running a hand through his hair. “That's – that's fair, I guess.”

 _Do you not remember who your engineer is?_ Connor asks. _Are you not able to access their records, perhaps? Has Cyberlife wiped their records?_

 _I am unfortunately unfinished, and that means my memory storage has been faulty._ RK900 pauses, and a brief look of irritation passes his face. _I recall we had a test for multiple storage boards, before my current one was left in my model and I was put on stand by._

_Do you remember when this was?_

_November 12, 2038._

Put on standby because of the revolution, RK800-60 notes. No, put on standby because the revolution had won and the president had announced that all efforts to curb it was to be put on hold until further notice.

Now is further notice. And here is an android whose development was stopped, and who wanted to have security in his own existence. Self-serving, but fair.  

 _How faulty is your memory?_ Connor asks.

 _It is currently functional. I am able to retain footage from the time I have awoken until present moment, however, as my storage board is limited, I have to discard unimportant footage from time to time._ Another pause. _My memory of the laboratory, however, has sizeable parts missing._

_From swapping out storage boards?_

_Yes._

“Emotional memory is often retained,” RK800-60 finds himself saying.  

RK900 turns to him. _I am not deviant. I do not have emotional memory._

RK800-60 stops. Good for him. “O...kay, I guess.”

Connor taps his arm softly to get his attention. _And you came here because your clearest memory was RK's._  

RK900 nods. _It was a place to start. When I awoke, Cyberlife's records had already been disposed of. Everything was being cleared out to make space for the androids moving in._

“You'd probably need to find, like, I don't know. Chloe. Or Kamski, again,” Hank says, “Or at least someone who worked as a secretary for Cyberlife. I know privacy policies changed over the years and employee records have been under extreme lock and key, so I'm not even surprised they didn't leave records behind when they moved out. Cyberlife employees were valuable national assets up until the revolution, considering the company also developed androids as military weapons.”

“Can't spill secrets,” RK800-60 mutters, “And can't spill anything about whether or not Cyberlife collected information on its customers and sold it to other companies either.”

“Place must have had a hell of an NDA,” Hank says. “Imagine how tight it was on engineers. Especially, uh.” He motions to RK900. “Ones for prototype detective androids. Probably buried records of the smartest of their crew six feet underneath.”

 _I need to find my engineer._ RK900 signs, this time a bit more forcefully and with a look of annoyance. _They are the only one capable of manufacturing my biocomponents._  

“They can't manufacture your parts by hand,” Hank points out.

RK900 is silent for a moment. _They will have blueprints. Or they will remember._ And then he stands and walks out of the room, like he has anywhere else to go in the house. RK800-60 keeps an eye on him as he disappears into the kitchen.

Hank snickers. _“I'm not deviant,_ my ass.”

RK800-60 presses his lips together, thinking. He shares a look with Connor, and his predecessor nods at him before turning to where RK900 has disappeared.

For someone whose memory of the lab was missing huge chunks to the point where he couldn't remember his engineer's face, he'd been very sure that he only had one engineer.

 

* * *

 

They can’t have him stay over the Hamilton’s, so they have to drag him back to the house. Hank grumbles something about collecting Connors, to which RK800-60 huffs very pointedly at, while RK900 just reminds the old man that he has no name as he never had the time to be given one. RK800-60 is sure he knows that Hank hadn’t been serious, but is being a smartass about it anyway, and he reiterates – _I’m not deviant,_ his ass.

The three of them don’t really need to sleep, although he and Connor have fallen into the habit of going into standby every night, mostly because boredom can be too much if they stay up late (and also RK800-60 has remembered the fun fact that in about a century and a half, his battery’s going to run out, so he’s going to die and it would be best if he started conserving power now, and he’d had a panic attack about that thought – that had been a fun thing to learn, that androids could get panic attacks, and that the thought of death, however far off it was, scared the hell out of him), but with RK900 around, there’s a possibility they both might need to stay up for the night.

Thankfully, the concern seems to not be a big deal, as, when Hank turns in for the night, RK900 just goes to stand in the corner of the room to put himself on standby. The LEDs on his jacket slowly dim, and RK800-60 has to wonder if those are directly connected to him. Maybe his clothes are nanotech too. That would be useful, certainly, and an extra advantage if the situation called for it.

Lucky guy with an eccentric engineer.

He’s awake before all of them the next morning, but all he does is wait in the same corner he’d spent the whole night, and RK800-60 doesn’t blame Hank when he says that he thinks it’s creepy.  

“The sooner we help him find his engineer, the better,” the old man says, and then turns to RK900 to wave a hand, “No offense. It’s just kinda disturbing seeing you stand there and stare at all of us.”

 _None taken,_ RK900 signs. _I am not capable of feeling offense._

Hank hits Connor’s arm with the back of his hand and snorts. “Exactly like you were before, huh?”

“I like to think I had a better grasp at social cues, Hank.”

Hank just laughs.

RK800-60 meanwhile, stares back at RK900, and watches as he observes the room. He’s most likely scanning it, pinpointing things and running them through every database he can access. Judging from the barely-noticeable expansion of his pupils as he stares at some things, his optical units can probably zoom in, which is weird to think about but in the context of being an investigative model, makes sense.

He’s still bitter about the repair system.  

“Do you have any place to start on, at all?” Hank asks, stabbing the pancakes RK800-60 had made him that morning. The man’s not really a big breakfast guy, but he _is_ trying not to skip meals as it worries Connor a lot. “Aside from tracking down RK.”

RK800-60 holds his tongue on asking not be called that. It’s not like he actually does have a name he’s decided on. That feels too official. Too...solid; too much of a cornerstone on his identity.

And honestly, he’s not sure he’s ready for that yet, but no one’s going to know.  

 _I’ve been looking up information on you since I have had confirmation on who you all are,_ RK900 signs, and ignores Hank’s little cough of, “Creepy.” _I know that you mostly work with the Detroit Police Department._

“I work in an animal shelter,” RK800-60 automatically says. When RK900 turns to him, just as expressionless as always, he just raises a finger slowly to emphasize a point. “I just resent that. Animal shelter. Sometimes Ham’s aunt’s flower shop.”

“Why do you hate the police department so much?” Connor asks.

“I don’t.”

“Resent?”

“I - ” He pauses. “Okay, you got me there, I set myself up for that. Hank, help.”

Hank shrugs. “Fuck cops?”

“Good enough.”

Connor sighs. “I’m serious, RK.”

“We’re getting derailed,” RK800-60 says, and turns to RK900 to flap a hand at him. “Continue.”

RK900 thankfully does. _I thought your affiliation with the law enforcement would be useful in tracking down my engineer._

“Can’t you look them up?” Hank asks.  

 _My memory is defective,_ RK900 signs, _I cannot form a clear picture of their appearance to be able to do proper research._

“Uh.” Hank thinks for a second, frowning a little in concentration. “Vague recall of how they look like so we can make a sketch?”

_Had I been capable of that, I would have pieced their image together myself and looked for them._

“Okay, sasscrack, you want help, you tone it down,” Hank says, “You’re telling me you know you had an engineer, you’re looking for them, but you have...zero actual recall on what they look like and how to find them?”

_Yes._

“But you’re positive you weren’t put together by a bot or anything?”

_Yes._

“Uh-huh.” Hank takes a bite out his pancakes first, swallows, drinks some orange juice, and then winces at the taste since he’d accidentally brushed his teeth out of his usual no-breakfast-straight-to-work habit that he’s currently trying to break. “Are you lying?”

_I have no reason to._

“You sure sound like you’re lying. A lot of stuff doesn’t add up,” Hank says. “You’re sure you had an engineer – just one, or a team?”

 _I remember there was one,_ RK900 says, _However, as my memory is faulty, it is possible there were multiple people._

“But your memory defect didn’t affect the like, vague impression, that you had an engineer?” Hank asks.

RK900 nods. _Yes,_ he signs again, _And other than that – RK models, at least the prototypes, are never machine-made._

“Fair enough,” Hank says, “What else do you have to support this theory?”

_My laboratory only had one chair._

Hank pauses at that, and then turns to RK800-60.

“He’s...right, the laboratory did only have one chair around its table, and it looked like it was custom-built for only one engineer. It looked like it also functioned as an office,” RK800-60 says. “Although it’s possible they had assistants and they could have only been the leader.”

 _Without offering other people places to rest on as well?_ RK900 signs.

RK800-60 shrugs. “There’s a lot of things that could have happened as an explanation for your engineer.” He snaps his fingers as he remembers something. “Wait – have you seen the contents of the other storage cases?”

 _No,_ RK900 says, _They were already cleaned out by the time I woke up. I believe I was supposed to be collected next, but I walked out. I did, however, see pieces from your memories._

“So you woke up after they cleaned the room?” Hank asks.

_Yes._

“Were you awake before that?”

_For a little while, yes. I decided to wait, going through my records, until I noticed I was missing several things._

Hank raises an eyebrow.

RK900 motions towards RK800-60. _Model RK800, serial number 313 248 317-60, entered the room on the last day that the Cyberlife employees were cleaning up, and the day that the androids were moving in. He interfaced with me absentmindedly –_  

“I was curious, thought I caught it in time.”

\- _and I saw his memories. I woke up a while later. I heard the humans cleaning the place out. I heard them talking about moving me out, or letting me stay in and let the android who would use the office find me. I decided I didn’t have time for that, since I had noticed my situation of having no back-up body parts due to having no engineer. I walked out when they were taking the other items away._

“And the building’s security footage?” Hank asks.  

_Deleted._

Hank throws his head back and laughs suddenly. RK900 actually frowns, like he’s offended.  

“Okay,” Hank says, when he’s calmed down a little. “Let me get this straight – you’re scared of dying, you don’t like socializing, you’re paranoid, and I’m pretty sure you do have emotional memory...and you still say you’re not a deviant?”

 _I am not,_ RK900 says, _I am a machine. If I see it fit to maintain and preserve my equipment, there are plenty of computers outfitted with anti-viruses to make sure their systems stay unaffected and functioning._  

“Because computers serve a purpose for whoever uses them, and whatever data that is stored there is going to get corrupted,” Hank says, “An independent computer who just _sees it fit_ to stay functioning? That’s called preservation instinct.”

 _All things have that,_ RK900 says, _Even things that have no brains or the complex systems that are usually attributed to generating emotions. Self-preservation is something all things have._  

“Except you’re not bacteria or a jellyfish,” Hank says, “Why delete all the footage in Cyberlife?”

_I did not want to be inconvenienced. I needed to move fast._

“You didn’t want to be found out,” Hank says, “Can still be paranoia. You want to find your engineer to make sure you stay kicking. That can be fear of death. You remember someone despite not having clear footage or whatever of them in your memories. That means they left an impression on you. That’s _emotional_ memory.”  

RK900 stares him down for a moment. Hank matches it, and then he looks like he’s realizing something.

“You may not be a deviant,” he says, “But do you want to be, do you want to be finished and to feel – is that why you’re looking for your engineer?”

RK900‘s expression shuts off to a blank one again. He just inclines his head, signs _No,_ and then walks out the room.

All three of them watch him in awkward silence until RK800-60 breaks it.  

“I think you pissed him off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, but chapter two!

**Author's Note:**

> s c r e a m s this was a brain fart and it's further down the The World Was Wide Enough timeline but why not, right?
> 
> Also, catch me putting my designs from my cyberpunk story that I wrote years ago into this fic because I'm so mad that apparently, Connor's character designers thought that putting a forensics lab in his mouth was a good idea. Where's my cool robo designs......why just the forensics lab in the mouth. Is it a kink thing? It's a kink thing, isn't it. WALL-E did robots better than this.


End file.
